Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“Drop for what? Safe from what?”

“Who the hell knows?”

“Why swab the apartment with antiseptic?”

“Same answer.”

I changed gears. “What about Cootie Clanahan’s Mustang lead?”

“Got someone helping me dig through DMV records—licenses, registrations, citations, the usual. The CCU ain’t overstaffed, so it’s probably gonna take the rest of our lives.” I could hear the frustration in his voice.

“How about the holding company that owns the property?”

“Working on that, too.”

Thirty minutes later, Marley sang again.

I recognized the number. I’d worked at that end of the line for decades.

“Good morning.” Uber-cheerful.

“This is not a social call.” Heavner’s tone was overtly hostile.

“It’s still a good morning,” I chirped.

“I thought I was explicit in asking that you refrain from interfering in cases assigned to my office.”

“You received my second email.”

“It seems I have not made myself clear.”

“Did you follow up on the Vodyanov ID?”

“How the hell did you obtain a sample for DNA testing?”

“Did I explain that Detective Slidell and I tossed Vodyanov’s car and confiscated personal items?” True but irrelevant. I wanted to divert Heavner. The dodge worked.

“I have no obligation to disclose this to you. I do so to demonstrate the inappropriateness of your behavior.” Meaningful pause. “There is no record of a Felix Vodyanov ever having been a guest at Sparkling Waters Ashram. There is no record of Dr. Yuriev treating such a person.”

“He probably registered under the name F. Vance.” Devoid of chirp. “More than once.”

Glacial silence.

“Ask Yuriev. Give him a call.”

“Do not tell me how to do my job.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

“Dr. Brennan, your actions amount to more than simple interference. What you are doing may rise to the level of obstruction. I am seeking advice concerning legal action against you. In the meantime, I am lodging ethics complaints with both the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.”

“Because I’ve made the only breakthrough in your case?”

“Your actions were unauthorized and may have compromised an official death investigation.”

“My input was sought by a member of the CMPD cold-case unit.” Not exactly.

“Really?” Disdainful snort. “The only thing cold in this case is the stiff.”

“That stiff, as you so crudely refer to a human being, may be linked to a number of child disappearances.”

“And to the rabbit assassinated at the Circle K?”

Ignoring Heavner’s sarcasm, “How did Vodyanov die?”

Silly question. Even if she knew, she wasn’t going to tell me.

“That does not concern you.”

“Did you run a full tox screen?” Further questioning was certain to annoy her more, but I couldn’t help myself.

“That information is confidential.”

“Are you engaging a board-certified anthropologist other than myself?”

“Not needed.”

A moment of chilly nothing filled the line. No clanking or buzzing, none of the familiar autopsy-room sounds. I pictured Heavner in Larabee’s office. He’d hung a Peter Max poster behind the desk. I wondered what she had gracing the wall.

When angered, one’s heart rate, arterial tension, and testosterone production increase, the stress hormone cortisol decreases, and the left-brain hemisphere goes all twitchy. The thought of Dr. Morgue in Larabee’s space triggered the whole raucous circus.

“It’s been ten days,” I snapped. “If you had cause of death, you’d have staged another of your alpha-dog performances. That’s your specialty, right? Playing the media for personal glorification?”

“How dare y—”

“You better believe I dare.” Blood was exploding into the tiny vessels in my cheeks. “I dare to get this man identified. I dare to pursue even the faintest glimmer of a lead concerning the fate of these missing kids.”

Heavner shifted the phone and spoke to someone. A male voice responded. When her mouth returned to the receiver, “There is no point in further discussion.”

I drew a hot breath to respond. Heavner cut me off.

“But bear in mind one truth, Dr. Brennan. I am the alpha dog.”

Abrupt disconnect.

I sat quite a while, face flaming, trying to recover the decades of professionalism I’d mislaid during that brief conversation.

The torture continued all day.

At noon, it was Pete. He was back in Charlotte and had news that could only be relayed in person. He was solemn and engaged in none of his usual banter or teasing. His tone frightened me. Beyond saying that the topic had nothing to do with Katy, no amount of wheedling could get him to expand. I agreed to dinner the following night.

Then it was Mama. She and Sinitch had booked a trip to Bhutan to work on their spirituality and wellness and to reconsider the concept of weddings. When pressed for specifics, she said they’d be visiting Buddhist meditation centers and undergoing hot-springs therapy. When I asked if these centers could accommodate her chemo regime, she assured me all would be fine. Far from reassured, I phoned her doctor’s office. The switchboard directory made me certain my brain was dribbling right out of my ear. I left a message with a bot in a basement cubbyhole entered through a secret door in an abandoned cutlery closet.

Disconnecting, I wondered. Was it my fault? Had I mentioned the ashram to her? Thought not, but couldn’t be sure.

I checked my email, hoping for a consult request, which would mean a bit of additional income. Found none. At one point, I considered a trip to the Apple Store but couldn’t muster the energy. Another truth about me. I hate malls. And waiting in lines. And there was the budgetary issue. After phoning the painter and the electrician again, I spent time catching up on neglected paperwork.

As the afternoon wore on, a troubling question percolated up through my agitation. Given Heavner’s obvious hostility, why had she shared any information at all? Was her uncharacteristic collegiality spurred by an ulterior motive? Dribble Brennan a few crumbs, let her crack the case, then Dr. Morgue can swoop in and grab credit for the solve?

Around five, after placing duct tape over my laptop’s camera lens, I logged onto WebMD and typed in the term taphophobia . Consistent with Asia Barrow’s characterization, the condition was defined as the irrational fear of being buried alive, sometimes the fear of interment resulting from a false pronouncement of death. The site also offered these tidbits.

Taphophobia can originate from childhood experiences involving actual entrapment or from viewing depictions of such situations. Sufferers may avoid enclosed buildings, fearing collapse. Some refuse anesthesia, fearing they’ll be wrongly declared dead and buried. Exacerbating factors include other mental disorders and substance abuse.

Felix Vodyanov was being treated for taphophobia? Then why live underground?

After a Foodie Call dinner of lamb korma, much appreciated by Birdie, I tried reading. My theory was solid: escape into a world I could leave whenever I chose. My carry-through was lacking. Anger and frustration had me jittery and unable to focus.

Just past six, Marley announced yet another caller. Blocked number. Thinking my anxiety couldn’t possibly increase, maybe hoping to unload on some unsuspecting telemarketer, I answered.

“I’m trying to reach Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Male. Unfamiliar.

“This is she.”

“I work for the Charlotte Observer .”

“I already have a subscription.”